Cataclysm
Prologue Recieved. Unknown language. Unknown dialect. Running algorithm of known encryptions... encryption found. Transmission is in English, translated into Hexadecimal. Translating... from: Sahara Desert, Africa. Transmitted to: Unclaimed territory, Antarctica. Building 105 complete Beginning sequence Sequence completion estimated in 4 minutes Sequence completed Initializing fabrication of Icon Icon fabricated Anomaly: summoned entity does not match known characteristics of Icon Shaper squadrons deployed Shaper squadrons lost Artificer lost No further action against Anomaly possible at present Retreat Retreat Chapter One The Premier's office was not overly decorative, as far as Communist leaders' offices went. The portraits of all his predecessors, save Cherdenko, adorned the entire western wall. Opposite was the map of the world, displaying her territory and those who owned it. One day, the scarlet that so far only extended to the USSR and her allies would overtake the blue of the Allied Nations, the orange of the Japanese Empire of the Rising Sun, and even the very well-fortified green of the Atomic Kingdom of China. Until then, however, it paid to keep abreast of the way things were. The old phonograph in the corner played a jaunting rendition of the famous March, a tune to which the Premier himself had walked in step on his way to the second World War. Such was the glory of those days, the Premier might not have heard his telephone ringing were he daydreaming any deeper. But hear it he did. He cut off the phonograph, and noted that the line was the rarely-used hotline to the headquarters of the Allied Nations. The last time this phone had rung, it was a crank call from a snotty Allied intern. But a call to the Premier's office from the Allied HQ could not be ignored. He picked up. "'Allo." "Yes, is this the Premier?" "Zis is he him speaking it." "This is the International Security Office. Your presence is required." Sigh. Another prank. "Zere is no such office. Do not call zis line again." He hung up. The phone rang again. "Let us assure you, Premier, there is a very good reason you have not heard of us." "Ze vorld is at peace. Ze Allies have no reason to keep secrets from us." "We're telling you now, aren't we?" "..." "Premier?" "Vy are you using zis line?" "There is no other phone line from the Allies to you. This was our only method of contacting you." "Suppose I agree to meet at zis... verever it is." "In that case, we would notify the agent that has been assaigned to you. They would arrive at your location within the hour. You would be guaranteed safe passage between the ISO and the Kremlin." "Vy am I needed at zis Eye-Ess-Oh?" "That must remain secret. You will be told upon your arrival." "Vere is ze location I am to be sent?" "I'm sorry. We can't tell you that, under any circumstances." "Is zere anysing else I should know about?" "You would do well to bring any amenities you cannot live without, Premier. If all does not go according to plan, you may be here for a very long time." The Premier thought for a long while. The Allies, in need of his help? A subsection of the Allied government neither he nor his predecessors had ever heard of? A covert agent who, if not already in the Kremlin, possessed the means to get to his office within a hour, if not less? It all made him very uncomfortable. "Premier, we need your answer." He slowly raised the phone to his ear again. "Zuppose I refuse zis offer. What then?" "In that case, the agent assigned to you will not be notified, you will not be brought to the ISO, and this conversation will never have happened. There is also a very good chance that, should you refuse, the Kremlin will be razed within two years, along with all of Moscow." "Is zat a threat?" "Unless we succeed, it is a promise. Which is why we would appreciate your help." A minor pause. Cooperate with the Allies, or face complete destruction from the unknown. What did he have to lose? "I accept your offer." "Wonderful, Premier. Our agent in the area has been notified." The caller hung up. Well, the Premier thought to himself, this is a fine mess I've gotten myself into. There was a knock at the office door. "Come." The door creaked slightly as it opened. At the door was Dasha, the communications officer and one of the Premier's most trusted aides. "Gather your belongings, Premier," said Dasha. "We leave in five hours." ---- The jet matched an Italian model he was familiar with. "Alexandra" or some similar name. The in-flight cinema went ignored, as did the mini-fridge near the back of the plane. He wasn't interested in wasting his time. He wanted answers. Like the side windows, the front windshield of the jet was blackened to prevent anyone inside from guessing where in the world they were. Dasha was flying the craft entirely on sensors. "Tell me, Dasha," the Premier said, making his way to the cabin, "How long have you been a spy for this Allied institution?" "I am not a spy. I am merely the liason between the ISO and the Soviet government. I genuinely hoped I would not be called upon to act in such a capacity." "You didn't answer my question." "Ever since the end of the war. The Allies formed the ISO as a nonpolitical branch, in cases where the entire world is threatened." "Some sort of global defense initiative...?" "Not an initiative. The ISO was to remain dormant and unused unless it became clear that the military power of any of the national forces was not great enough to combat a threat to the planet. We have had several near-misses in the last few months." "One last question. What am I doing here?" "You are the leader of the mightiest military force on the planet, Premier. They needed your authority, as well as the authority of many other major military powers." "So I am not the only national leader you kidnapped." "If they were going to kidnap you, Premier, they wouldn't have given you the courtesy of asking first." "So what are you doing here?" "We're landing. No more questions, please." ---- Where he was, it was hot. Flat, rocky desert stretched out in all directions, broken only by a lonely hill in the distance and the massive concrete "gate" dug into the ground in front of him. Nothing of the structure protruded above ground level, save for a small antenna that served no immediately obvious purpose. Dasha escorted the Premier down the slope to the main entrance, a steel door large enough to drive an Apocalypse Tank through. She spoke to the posted guard in some language he did not know, French perhaps, and turned to leave. "Where do you think you're going, Dasha? I haven't dismissed you yet," he said, half joking. "I must return to the Kremlin, Premier. I was the ISO's agent to you, now I must be your agent to the people of Russia. Dosvadanya." As she turned to leave, it suddenly struck the Premier that he had no idea what to do next. "Comrade Premier." So the guard can speak Russian, too. That makes things a bit easier. "Yes. I assume you know what is going on?" "No, comrade Premier. You just have to go through this gate and all will be revealed to you." "That's the best piece of news I've heard all month." They shared a laugh as the guard pressed some random sequence of buttons on a nearby keypad. The doors shuddered, then opened wide enough to fit perhaps two people side-by-side, if they squeezed hard enough. "Please continue, comrade Premier." As he passed the gate, the doors slid shut behind him with a resounding THUNK, leaving him in complete darkness. A set of lights illuminated the sizable corridor ahead of him, stopping at a T-intersection that branched off into darkness. Standing where the lights stopped was the man the Premier least wanted to see at this hour. "Hello, comrade," said Robert Bingham, the Supreme Commander of the Allied military. "We're so glad you could join us." End of Chapter One. Chapter Two "Meester Bingham. So dis is my velcoming comittee?" "It's Commander Bingham, actually. And yes. I'm afraid all of the other delegates have more pressing matters to attend to." "Delegates? You mean this is..." "No, Premier, we're not trying to rope you into joining the UN. And despite what you may think, we're not here to kill you, either." "And vy do you theenk I'' theenk you vant to kill me?" "Because you have an ADK-45 down your left pants leg and a revolver in your back pocket." "Vell, of course. I'm not ''stupid." "Quite frankly, Premier, if you were stupid enough not to assume the worst, we would have called Dasha instead." With that, Bingham opened the door behind him, leading into a smaller yet much better-lit hallway. "By the by, how did you know I was concealing a weapon?" "You walk funny." The hallway was rather labrynthine, but Bingham seemed to know where he was going. It occurred to the Premier that he was completely lost. That was not good. Occasionally, they would pass by a door, but the doors were marked in English. Or Spanish, or something. They all used the same letters. Commander Bingham stopped in front of one. "Here we are." "Where is 'here'?" "'Here'..." Bingham opened the door. "..Is the War Room." A massive screen adorned the far wall, showing the earth and all its territories. Directly in front of the screen was a balcony, mostly likely for briefings to the various commanders. Lining the spacious floor were rows and rows of command computers. About half of them were manned. The Premier noted that the room's floor space was divided into eighths, with each section highlighted in a different military's colors. Near the front was the blue Allied section, and the orange of Japan. Nearer to the entrance were black, teal, and yellow. Odd, the Premier thought. I know of no military with those colors. One eighth was devoid of command computers, instead devoted to one large mainframe with a strange purple symbol on the side. "And here, Premier, is your seat." Bingham gestured to the frontmost seat in the red Soviet section. "Here, you will be able to contact miss Fedorovich, and through her the rest of your forces. If we find ourselves in an emergency situation, you will also have direct command to your military forces." "So... what do I do now?" "You're going to make yourself comfortable. Everything will be made clear to you as soon as we have representatives from all eight militaries. "Eight?" "Suffice it to say, you haven't been told everything." "I don't doubt that." ---- In groups, pairs, and singly, representatives from the various militaries arrived. The yellow section was filled with a suprising cross-section of American society. The Allies, of course, managed to find the same kind of person from all over the world: prim, proper, and hiding a massive love of violence. Japan was staffed by the same stuck-up, traditional bores that the Premier had become accustomed to over the course of World War III. The Chinese had their Viceroy, along with 5 clones of same. You could tell which was which because only the Viceroy had that ridiculous hat. The black section was filled by dark-robed individuals, the only difference between them being height. The teal section was claimed by an average-looking businessman, along with several very non-average-looking human beings with various metal bits grafted onto them. Surprisingly, other Soviets had been "invited" to this grand meeting of militaries. Oleg Vodnik, Zhana Agonskya, and several of their lieutenants arrived shortly after the Premier himself had. "Greetings, comrade Premier," said Oleg. "I trust you know what is going on?" "No more than you, comrade General. But that is why we are here, da? The capitalists owe us an explanation." As the last of the leaders took their places in the War Room, the lights dimmed. Commander Bingham was on the balcony in front of the screen. On display behind him was a geographical world map, with a single red dot flashing somwhere in the African Sahara Desert. "No doubt you all have questions," said the Commander, his voice amplified by a microphone hidden somewhere on his person, "about the nature of your being here. 'Why am I stuck in a room with all of these lunatics,' you may be thinking. 'I have to get out of here!'" This elicited a dark chuckle from one of the occupants of the yellow section. "Quite simply, it is because we face a threat to the planet Earth, a threat that ignores allegiance, motive, or even species. We have been invaded. "Here are the facts. For a long while after the Third World War, a silent robotic force known as the Electrical Protectorate occupied many of the uninhabited areas of the world, including Antarctica, Madagascar, and the more barren parts of Africa." To illustrate his point, the geographical map shifted to political, and several previously unclaimed areas were filled in with purple. "The Protectorate professed to have communication with an extradimensional being they refer to with a term they say will destroy anything that manages to pronounce it. To make it easier for themselves, they nicknamed it 'the Icon'." At this, the Premier had to become a bit skeptical. He looked around as Bingham continued speaking, and confirmed that his was not the only incredulous look in the room. "...Until two days ago, the Protectorate was experimenting with methods of bringing this 'Icon' into our plane of existence. They did end up summoning something in the Sahara desert, but it wasn't what they expected. Instead of the being that would supposedly grant them dominion over the planet, they got a massive abomination that eliminated the Protectorate presence surrounding the apperatus they used to summon it." At this point, one of the robed memebers of the black section stood. "You have something to add" "Only this. You do know that everything you're saying sounds like the mad ramblings from an insane cult leader?" "And you would know, right?" Silence. "...Right. I had a feeling that someone would call me on that. Which is why I brought something to help convince you. 36, come here, please." A being walked onto the balcony. It appeared to be constructed of steel, with several purple highlights on its body. Its head's only feature was a single unblinking eye. "36 is an Aggressor, the basic foot soldier of the Protectorate. He is the only surviving of the Sahara incident. Out of every Protectorate individual, only he was far enough away to escape the 'Anomaly,' as they call it. 36, if you please." 36, as Bingham called him, stepped to the center of the balcony. Bingham walked down and took a seat in the blue section of the War Room. A single image took the place of the global map. Whatever it was, it was ugly. Various looks of revulsion and panic were seen throughout the crowd of world leaders. "This is the Anomaly. It is massively powerful, and has resisted all attempts at destruction thus far." The robot's voice was metallic and toneless. "It is currently resting near its point of origin in the Sahara Desert." "Then why wait?" called out the Premier. "Let my Soviet armies take position. We will erect many Vacuum Imploders, and bomb this monster into atoms!" This elicited a cheer from his Soviet entourage. "Fortunately, Premier, that is our plan. Unfortunately, it is unfeasable using only Soviet forces. The Anomaly is capable of eliminating large numbers of targets at once. The only possible method of aggression is a multi-faceted attack, using as many modus operadi as possible. That is why the Protectorate has requested the aid of so many of your human factions. But it is not the only reason. "Since the Anomaly was summoned into this world, we have been monitoring its actions. We have discovered something that has shifted the matter from 'Level-Omega Security Alert' to 'X-Class Apocalypse Scenario'. Not only is the Anomaly violent, not only is it highly malevolent to all life on earth, not only is it more than capable of driving the Protectorate and human species to extinction, but it is growing. And... it is multiplying." ---- There was a startled pause in the War Room. "Excuse me," said one of the men in the yellow section. "Hi, Ronald Reagan, Confederate general." "Speak." "You're saying this thing is multiplying?" "Affirmative." "So, this evil, massively powerful... thing is making more of itself?" "Not at present, though that is certainly within its power. It is instead creating smaller, subordinate creatures to do its bidding. In its present state, it is functioning much like a mobile war factory." "So, to get this straight, there is a massive bug-dragon-lizard-thing in the Sahara Desert..." "Yes." "...It's making an army of small bug-dragon-lizard things..." "Yes." "...And we haven't shipped out to stop it yet why?" "You're asking me?" "One thing," said the Chinese Viceroy. "What support will we be getting from this Electrical Protectorate? How do we know you are not simply employing us to clean up a mess you created?" "Near the rear of the room, there is a mainframe. It is a communication relay to Protectorate Command Node Sigma. It will lead a Protectorate force alongside your own." "Well, then," spoke one of the robed men in the black section. "I've heard enough." He immediately keyed in a frequency on the nearest command computer. "Calling Metatron Crawler Cell, this is Brother Solomon, come in, Metatron." A female voice answered. "This is Lady Maria, Metatron here. Go ahead, Brother Solomon." By this time, the entire War Room had picked up on the hint. "Attention, Sons of Liberty, we have a situation." "How bad?" "The-Allies-asked-us-to-a-tea-party bad." "Tell me where, tell me when." "Calling 42nd Imperial MCV Regiment. Deployment required in territory oh-one-nine-six. Further detail will be provided en route." "Roger." "Dasha, this is the Premier. Come in, please." "This is Dasha. Orders?" "Get me everyone." "...What do you mean, 'everyone?'" "EVERYONE! Ground, air, sea. Everyone." "...Da, comrade Premier. Patching you through." "Giles, Commander Bingham here." "'Ello, Commander. Time to move?" "Go to it. Recruitment has total success." "Calling the Legatus Legionis, this is the Head Chairman." "Legionis here. Are my services needed?" "We face a severe threat to our assets, near sector 196." "Threat level?" "Heck, I don't know... Threat Level 'Our most valuable asset after this is going to on the freaking moon if we don't get our crap in gear'. That threat level." Within 24 hours, every military force in the world had sent the beginnings of a base to the incident zone. The Battle of the Sahara Anomaly had begun. End Chapter Two. Chapter Three The Crusader Crawler ''Metatron' rumbled through the barren wastes of the Sahara, levelling any obstructions that happened to be in its way. In the massive vehicle's cockpit sat the Order of the Talon's patron saint, Lady Maria. Below, in the Crawler's hold, were four Mobile Construction Vehicles of varying makes and models, their escorting vehicles, as well as a small forklift-like device and a group of roughly man-sized blobs of nanites. Floating over the Crawler was a rounded, metallic Orbital Construction Vehicle, bearing the ying-yang symbol of the Atomic Kingdom of China. Farther away, near the more deserted parts of the desert, sat a monster. And surrounding that monster were hundreds upon thousands of smaller, much uglier monsters. And there were more all the time. As the Lady steered the tank-treaded castle to a stop, its massive hold opened, spilling its occupants into the. Down the ramp rolled the MCVs, the nanite beings, and the comparatively tiny forklift. Each of the MCVs and the OCV chose a spot and unfurled into their respective Construction Yards. The nanites merged together a small distance away, and the ensuing mass began to consume the surrounding sand. The forklift, through some inscrutible means, rapidly set up a scaffold and set to work building a Construction yard of its own. Everything was running on schedule. The first beast appeared a few hours after the base had been established. By that time, various divisions of infantry troops were on hand to kill it. ---- "What is it?" "I don't have a clue, but it's ugly as all-get-out." An Allied Peacekeeper and a Confederate Minuteman had managed to down the thing before it had gotten away. It looked sort of like a big, fuzzy cockroach, if cockroaches had giant mandibles instead of eyes. "So... you gonna drag it back?" "I'm not touching it. I'd rather wait for the Chemical Troopers to get out here and melt it." "Duck." "No, it's more like a roach." "No, DUCK!" The Peacekeeper ducked. A bright orange spray of acid barely missed his head. On top of the nearest dune was another, slightly bigger Roach, emitting a gravelly screech from somewhere behind its "head." Its mandibles were dripping with the same liquid that was supposed to be eating through someone's skull right about now. There were a few dozen behind it. The two rapidly backpedalled, the Minuteman firing wildly at the charging, chittering mass of bugs, the Peacekeeper babbling incoherent but desperate-sounding noises into his helmet radio. ---- The War Factory on the other side of the base thrummed to life, producing a pair of spider-like walkers a few seconds later. They turned, squatted for a moment, and launched themselves half a mile to the beleagured patrolmen. ---- The Peacekeeper and Minuteman had developed a system. The Peacekeeper bowled over one of the Roaches with a shotgun blast to the face, and the Minuteman splattered it with a rocket. Repeat as necessary. Screaming and running for your life throughout the process was optional. One of the Roaches had pinned the Minuteman. He was about halfway through his things to tell "my wife, Charlotte" when a Sickle dropped from out of nowhere and speared the Roach on one of its spindly legs. "... Y'know what, nevermind. I'll tell her."